Ashes to Ashes
by wcfarrow
Summary: [B2 OF HTMF] The Clans are in shambles. Everything Stonetail once knew lies at her feet, no more than a great mountain of dust. Her blood is not pure. Her father is not kind. Her home is not safe. Yet she will have to claim new territory for her patchwork Clan, or face its inevitable destruction. What price is Stonetail willing to pay for safety, and how dire are the consequences?
1. PROLOGUE

**Welcome to _Ashes to Ashes_, the second book in the How the Mighty Fall trilogy. If you're new, be sure to read _How the Mighty Fall _first; these stories are completely intertwined.**

* * *

_Water. The soft burble of a stream._

A slim shadow creeps through the tangled undergrowth, tail low, eyes narrowed, claws unsheathed.

_Waiting. Watching. Healing._

It has heard many things from the forest, but so few things that it understands. A sparrow flitting by gives it no more than a passing glance, and dry grass crackles underfoot.

At least it understands that it is barely more than a ghost to this world.

_Two familiar scents. Nearby._

The shadow doesn't want to meet its intended end.

It might anyway if it holds to this path.

_A pair of green eyes._

Despite every sign that this task is a dangerous one, the shadow continues forward. It cannot surrender searching. It will follow its goal to the ends of the world, even though the way is most certainly perilous.

But it moves soundlessly along its path, never forgetting the conviction that brought it so far in the first place.

_Vengeance._

It is alive, it has a trail to follow, and it will stare down a monster if it must.

Yet it is not alone.


	2. I - CASCADE

The running is going to kill her. Faster and faster she charges through the undergrowth, wishing it wasn't greenleaf, wishing the wood weren't so lush and thick. But would leaf-bare be any better, cold and exposed? Don't answer that, she tells herself, lunging over a fallen log and nearly twisting a paw. That's all it would take to kill her with the coyotes on her heels. But she refuses to die. She's come this far. She's come so far.

Her chest burns with the effort. Dodging every stray frond and twig saps her energy, and the bigger obstacles afford her no shelter. There are too many coyotes in pursuit for her to spend time searching for a hiding place. And what of Tawnyfeather? Did the BreezeClan warrior get away, or did the coyotes make a meal of her? Don't answer that, she thinks again.

A tangle of vines and ferns suddenly blocks the way. Stonetail draws up short, taking great, heaving breaths as her pursuers crash through the forest behind her. Where's the way out? Can she climb? No, not fast enough. And the gaps in the foliage are too tight. Muscling her way through will only result in the vines trapping her, holding her steady for death. Frantic, she whirls, expecting slavering jaws and searing breath in the seconds before being torn apart. Instead, she spies amber eyes peering out of the wood at her.

"Tawnyfeather!" Stonetail gasps, and when the eyes rush away, she follows through a narrow gap between two thorny bushes, heedless of the lines scored against her skin. Small scrapes that can be covered in cobwebs will heal, and she'll take recovery over being made into a meal. Clearly Tawnyfeather thinks the same thing, because even though they've put the thorns between themselves and the coyotes, she hardly slows, burning through the undergrowth with her limbs pumping furiously. Stonetail follows a tail-length behind, long legs stinging as if riddled with pine needles, but still holding. Until they are safe, until they can return to the others without leading the coyotes along the way, her weary limbs will have to hold.

A sharp, sudden turn nearly sends the grey warrior careening down a short slope with a shallow creek at the bottom. It occurs to her that Tawnyfeather didn't signal the shift with her tail, something they had agreed on when they left as scouts that morning, but maybe the fear is getting to her. It's certainly getting to Stonetail. Though the distance between her and the coyotes has increased, their panting and baying rings in her ears, their sour breath filling her nose.

Rousing them had been an accident. She and Tawnyfeather had stumbled upon the sleeping family by mistake, and in the process of slipping away, a misstep had rustled the ground cover. A coyote had lifted its ears, and in moments, the entire group was in hungry pursuit of an easy meal. Somewhere along the way, Tawnyfeather had split off to the side and vanished, leaving Stonetail to her own devices.

"Why did you leave me?" Stonetail demands, each word coming out in a labored burst. But Tawnyfeather doesn't reply, instead doubling her pace as she takes another sharp turn. Her tail vanishes through a cluster of dense holly, and when Stonetail explodes through the other side, she finds herself overlooking a bubbling stream, fed by a small waterfall. It's nothing like WillowClan's old river and violent rapids, and despite the urgency in the air, there's something peaceful to the water as it tumbles steadily down the rocks. Stonetail almost forgets that she is running for her life until another long howl sounds from nearby, and when she snaps to attention, she spots Tawnyfeather splashing across wet rocks to reach the opposite bank. From there, she hurries toward the base of the waterfall, and to Stonetail's alarm, disappears in the spray.

With no time to lose, Stonetail sprints down to the stream and picks her way across the rocks. She nearly pitches into the water partway across, the slick surface fully prepared to do her in, but makes it to the other side with a long, adrenaline-fueled leap. Still at full tilt, she darts after Tawnyfeather, and when she comes alongside the waterfall, the narrow gap in the rocks, glimmering with mist, is plain to see.

So are the coyotes, even the pups big and heavy enough to cross the stream without aid of the rocks. Terror trounces reason, and without a second thought, Stonetail squeezes herself into the passage. The walls press close to her sides, their jagged edges prodding her uncomfortably as she squirms along, but they keep out the snarling coyotes, which jam their muzzles into the opening with as much force as they can. Stonetail nearly loses the tip of her tail and surges forward, only to fall into a small hollow filled with damp air and the faint scents of water vole. It is startling to realize the tranquil falls could hide such a convenient hideaway.

More startling, though, is the cat already occupying the limited space. She is not Tawnyfeather.

"Who are you?" the mystery cat spits, hackles raised. She backs toward the far wall, tail raised and damp moss squelching underfoot.

"Who are _you_?" Stonetail echoes, mirroring the other cat's movements until the snarl of a coyote reminds her it isn't safe to back up too far. Instead, she slinks around the outer wall of the space, forcing the ginger-and-white cat to shift with her until they spit at one another from across the little cavern.

The she-cat refuses to give up a name. "You brought them here," she says accusingly, flicking the barest glance toward the crevice that leads outside. Another snarl rings out, along with a splash and a high yelp.

"I thought you were a friend," Stonetail replies defensively, pinning her ears back. "Hardly my fault that you didn't make that clear." Still, there's a kernel of truth in the she-cat's words: Stonetail did wake the beasts and draw them into pursuit. Wrinkling her nose, she neglects to address that particular factor, and the she-cat doesn't seem to know. She doesn't bring it up, and instead, after a few cold, tense minutes, she rocks back onto her haunches and settles down with her unwavering gaze on Stonetail at all times. At first, Stonetail returns the favor, but eventually, an itch crawls up and down her spine, and she surrenders to the urge to groom herself, keeping one ear swiveled toward the other side of the chamber just in case.

It goes on like this too long. The coyotes don't seem to know when to give up, and even though a number of heavy splashes suggest that their footing by the falls is no less than precarious, the snarling and scratching at the rock is too grating to be a trick of the water rebounding off the miniature cliff-face above.

The she-cat pipes up unexpectedly after another howl fills the air. "We're going to be here until they give up," she says. "Tell me who you are, or I'll be the only one who walks out."

It's been a while since Stonetail was threatened. To her surprise, it rolls off her back like rain. "Move a whisker-length toward me and I'll roll your body out for them," she drawls, licking a paw and drawing it over her face, a soothingly simple motion. To her satisfaction, the she-cat blinks in surprise, as if her experience in blustering is limited to being the blusterer. Her quick recovery, though is to her credit, and perhaps her conflict resolution skills are not limited to the kind involving tooth and claw.

"I'm Skipper," she concedes. "Now tell me who you are."

"Stonetail."

Skipper cocks her head. "Funny name you've got," she says with her eyes narrowed.

"Speak for yourself," Stonetail answers. She gives up grooming, though, and studies Skipper more carefully now, taking in the dirt under her claws and the feral tilt of her eyes. She could be a loner, which Stonetail would prefer. A loner is apt to move on without kicking up a fuss and alerting other cats to their presence. The Clans may dislike outsiders, especially now, but a loner is no threat to a large group.

A rogue, though? If Skipper shows any sign of being a rogue, Stonetail won't let her see the world outside again without ample warning of what will happen if they meet twice.

A twinge of guilt races through her gut. Once, she might have offered the benefit of the doubt, even to a rogue, but after witnessing the destruction a single violent cat can cause under the right circumstances, she's not inclined to take chances. Rogues, according to the remaining BreezeClan warriors, who dealt with them most frequently back in their meadow, often travel in groups, or claim territory as extensive as a full-fledged Clan might. They take land as conquerors, and there are no tales of rogues being merciful to the conquered.

If Skipper is a rogue, the Clans waiting on Tawnyfeather and Stonetail's scouting report may be in danger. Surviving this encounter is imperative.

Luckily, Skipper seems keen on surviving as well. She keeps her distance and sheathes her claws, though her gaze remains wary. "What are you doing here?" she asks. "I've never seen your hide before."

"Just passing through with a friend," Stonetail says, intentionally omitting the Clans. Better not to give Skipper too many reasons to fear her. "Trying to find a new home."

"New home?"

Don't ask for details, Stonetail prays even as she answers flatly, "Wildfire." And a murderer, but that's not appropriate for small talk with strangers. She schools her posture into total neutrality, and it takes less effort than it might have half a moon ago. She's had all that time to push her fear and rage under a carpet of moss, to replace it with cool certainty and a desire to finally settle, putting the good of her Clan first, though she would have never taught herself to do so if Greystar wasn't still a burning topic of the nightly gossip she so desperately tries to avoid.

ShadeClan wonders about the fate of its leader, wonders about when its new leader will be allowed to take his rightful place, but Stonetail wonders further back, wondering chiefly about where her mother's heart was.

It isn't the type of thought to pursue in a stranger's company, though, so she simply focuses on neutrality, cool neutrality. Neutrality is impressive and intimidating, and unless Skipper is brave to the point of idiocy, she'll steer well clear of trying to put chips in Stonetail's façade.

And she does. Until a cool night breeze trickles in, until the coyotes have long surrendered their pursuit and charged off in search of easier prey, Skipper is totally silent. Even when the coast clears, she maintains her silence, scenting the air carefully before squeezing into the tunnel. In the interest of avoiding a fight, Stonetail follows at a healthy distance, giving Skipper a wide enough berth to avoid giving the impression that she's following her.

Quickly they move to part, but to Stonetail's surprise, Skipper halts atop the stepping stones in the middle of the creek. "You smell like a lot of other cats," she says. "I'm assuming you're with the group in the oak glade. Go that way. And good luck." She kinks her tail downstream, and before Stonetail can reply, she vanishes into the nearest thicket, leaving only her scent as trace.

Stonetail follows the stream, sulking. Scents. Of course Skipper smelled all the scents on her pelt. If she's sent to scout tomorrow, she resolves, she's going to roll in the rankest patch of weeds she can find.

»»««

She returns just in time to witness Oaknose confronting Featherstar behind the hollow oak that serves as shelter for the weakest cats. "Enough stalling," he growls, lashing his tail and puffing out his chest. "My Clan is leaderless. BreezeClan is, too, and they're missing a medicine cat. Out of all the Clans, you've come off the best in this deal. If you don't search for a replacement for the Moon Grove, I will take my Clan and find one, and you can fend for yourself."

Featherstar's white pelt glows in the moonlight despite the signs of matting around her ruff. Diplomatic as ever, she does everything in her power to appear above the stresses of the search. "Oaknose, I would love to replace the Moon Grove immediately," she says. "Brackenheart would dearly love to ask our ancestors for advice. However, our priority is getting our weaker cats to safety. They need a home where they can recover without fear of having to abandon their nests in the morning. They need water, shelter, fast-running prey, adequate herbs, and so much more. Would you deny them that just to find a sacred place we may never be safe to use again?"

"After a half moon, I would!" He thrusts his muzzle into Featherstar's face, fangs bared. "You are leading us aimlessly. We have found nowhere safe to settle under your direction."

Featherstar shakes her head, and the glitter of light on her claws as she sinks them into the grass is the only sign that Oaknose angers her. "So you believe you can do better, by cutting your Clan out of one of the only stable alliances we've seen in generations?"

Stonetail chooses this moment to slide out of the shadowy undergrowth, pretending as if she has heard nothing of note. She dips her head to Oaknose first, then Featherstar, who sits upright at her arrival. "Stonetail, you're back! Good news, I hope?" WillowClan's leader purrs, a sound that is horrifically forced. No one is fooled.

"Coyotes," Stonetail replies, shaking her head. "They separated me from Tawnyfeather. Did she make it back safely?"

"Shaken, but safe," Featherstar admits. "We were worried for you."

Oaknose snorts and grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "I doubt it." He earns a sharp, sour glance for the trouble from Featherstar.

The field of Clan politics is almost as tiring as running from coyotes, and Stonetail dislikes the idea of lingering long enough to be caught up in the heated feud she's interrupted. "There's nowhere for us here," she says, "and I need to rest before we leave. Assuming we move again in the morning."

She slinks away toward the bursting bushes where the other cats have tucked themselves for the night, but before she can go far, footsteps sound behind her, and Featherstar's scent wafts forward. Oaknose spits an insult from afar but does not pursue.

"Any sign of anything else?" Featherstar asks, falling into step next to Stonetail. In this case, _anything_ is much more like _anyone_. WillowClan's leader harbors a suspicion that Torch is still out there, perhaps licking his wounds but otherwise alive, and it seems every other day, she sends Stonetail out on scouting trails that intentionally loop around behind the Clans, as if Torch will make it easy and slather his scent in their wake. Stonetail only complies because it gives her the opportunity to search for other scents, too. One, she doubts she'll ever smell again, but the other, she has to search for. Clay would be disappointed in her if she did not.

Shaking her head to clear out the tired fog that begins to settle in, she replies, "Just a loner. Not a familiar one." The clarification pushes Featherstar's shoulders into a slump and she sighs.

"Then we move tomorrow." She hesitates to leave Stonetail's side, still keeping pace, but then she suddenly sits, allowing the gap between them to grow as Stonetail angles for the nearest open space beneath the bushes, and as she lies down sandwiched between Stormfoot and Rivershine, she pretends not to hear Featherstar's apology.

She does a lot of pretending lately.


	3. II - PROPOSAL

Clay is equally inclined to pretend, it seems. In the morning, when the Clans rouse themselves for another grueling day of travel, the tabby tom is as bright and chipper as ever. He helps the apprentices regain fresh hope for the day, ensures the elders feel prepared to set their old bones in motion again, and when the queens allow it, he helps them carry their kits safely over harsh lands.

But he's tired, and Stonetail can see it in the way he leans into Streamheart under the early morning sun. His tail flags, his whiskers droop, and he can't possibly disguise his yawns.

It feels like it's her fault, too. Day after day, she has to tell him, "No, I haven't found him," and day after day, he meekly accepts it, though he always asks again in the morning. It's a delicate game that neither one wants to play, and Stonetail especially regrets every single time Clay winds hope into his heartstrings, only for her to wrench it right back out.

Even more painful is Leopardkit, who trails Streamheart constantly. The young tortoiseshell lost her mother, Sageflight, far too early, and now, it appears that Streamheart has begun to fill the hole in the kit's heart, especially since Oaknose tried to apprentice Leopardkit and her brother to Streamheart and Stormfoot, only to be dissuaded from the ceremony by his lack of a leader's name. Even ShadeClan, eager to have a leader of their own once more, dreads Oaknose's command before he is named Oakstar. Not only that, but the senior warriors and elders across all three Clans are deeply superstitious, and fear for sour luck since the new deputies for ShadeClan and BreezeClan have not been named in the half-moon of travel.

Leopardkit is not isolated from these rumors. "I think you should be the new deputy," she says to Streamheart, tail held high. "We need one, and you'd be a good one."

This isn't the first time they've had this conversation. Streamheart sighs. "Leopardkit, you know I haven't trained an apprentice yet. Oaknose couldn't name me deputy even if he wanted to."

"But he's already waited so long! Can't he just do it anyway?" Leopardkit huffs and bumps against Streamheart's legs. "You should ask him if he'll do it for you."

"How about you go ask him yourself?" Clay chimes in. Leopardkit, blissfully unaware of the false positive in his voice, squeals with delight and scampers off to the head of the group, weaving between the legs of warriors fall taller than herself. The malcontent of a kit running loose through unfamiliar territory drifts back on faint murmurs, but no one looks around for the culprit, most cats far too weary for conflict.

"She's very sweet," Streamheart says, "but I don't know if I can put up with her for six moons of training."

"You put up with me," Stonetail offers with a short-lived purr, but Streamheart doesn't return it. She simply hangs her head and another sigh breezes out. On the tabby's other side, Clay sighs, too, and his green eyes are dull. They make a fine picture of tiredness together, and as much as Stonetail would like to join them in their fatigue, to complete the trio, she can't. Her spine is taut with energy, and though she is tired of the wandering, she has convinced herself that she can't let her guard down, not for a moment. Her friends are relying on her strength, and more importantly, she fears a moment of weakness will invite more misery.

Did Torch not attack during a time of weakness for her and the clans alike? Did he not wait for the perfect opportunities to strike? So many survived, but Stonetail doesn't take heart from it, because so many also died. She can't let that ever happen again.

And so despite the rising sun and the pressing heat, she keeps her steady pace, eyes always ahead, always up. As the cats around her flag, she climbs to the head of the group, and in this way, she is among the first to spot the end to their winding trek through sparse forest.

So far, this morning's trudge has been through thinning ferns and drooping oaks, the first signs of life after slinking around whole camps of two-legs and their towering dens for nearly a quarter moon, desperate for an end to the bumbling, shouting creatures. Scarlet appears overhead now, signaling the end of greenleaf and peeking out from between lush, healthy boughs. No one is encouraged by the prospect of dwindling shelter. Worse, though, is the stretch of meadow that fans out ahead without an end in sight. The grass is short, the sun hot, and the few streams that have crisscrossed the land are shallow and parched. And on the other side, there could be anything. There might be shelter, but equally likely is the possibility that more two-legs will pepper the land.

"We can't cross this," Oaknose growls, coming to a halt and signaling with his tail to bring the entire procession to a halt. "There might not be safety for days." He scents the air, and licks his lips following, trying to banish the drought in his mouth. Stonetail becomes keenly aware of her own thirst, but stands stock still, listening to Oaknose's every word.

Naturally, it comes accompanied by Featherstar's plain refusal.

"We don't have a choice. These woods have no prey, and any predator for days will find us here eventually. Anything we can rely on lies beyond that grass, unless you would prefer to starve or be picked off one by one."

Somehow, Leopardkit is still nearby, standing on her own rather than allowing a warrior to carry her. At Featherstar's sharp words, she squeaks softly and dashes behind the legs of the nearest warrior, who noses her onward towards the queens. It's Lakewhisker.

"May I suggest something?" he asks, stepping forward. All eyes flicker to him, even Stonetail's, and cats make way for the old tom's slow movements. He claims to be hale and hearty, but it's hard to ignore the signs of slowness and age that are creeping into his every movement. Those who comment on it, though, Lakewhisker cheerily dismisses.

He offers the leaders one of those cheery dismissals to their faces, too, albeit on a different topic. "We can't stay here forever," he says, nodding to Featherstar, "but we can't march into nowhere without a plan." Here, Oaknose lifts his muzzle smugly, but he deflates when Lakewhisker suggests, "Since neither of these options is a long term solution, why don't we send scouts out in parties of three? It will make it easier to feed those of us who remain to wait, and someone is bound to find a safe way forward. I would personally be happy to volunteer for it."

"Absolutely not," Stonetail blurts out, drawing Lakewhisker's attention. "I'll go, and you'll stay here."

"The best warriors can't all go," he replies, gently brushing his tail over her flank as she approaches. "We still need some hunters and defenders. I can do those things only in limited amounts, but I can walk, and I can keep walking."

"And if you find trouble along the way?" Oaknose interrupts. "Lakewhisker, you willingly surrendered your role as a warrior, and while I appreciate the offer, you will not go wandering off into the unknown. However," he continues, gaze snapping to Stonetail, "you will not go either. I will not have my warriors risking their lives and leaving us waiting in an exposed area."

"So what do you want, then?" The fur along Featherstar's spine begins to rise, and she curls her lip. "Do you think you can provide for your Clan with smoke and ashes? If you do, you're more than welcome to go back and lead a wasteland, if you can get past the two-legs again. I'm trying to keep the Clans together and safe at the same time, which is more than you can say right now. Truthfully, Oaknose, I'm ashamed of the thought of having to call you ShadeClan's leader."

Silence follows, colder than leafbare. Instead of retaliating, Oaknose freezes in place, rage pouring from him in waves. Stonetail takes a step away, ears flattened as she switches her attention between Oaknose and Featherstar and back again. Hackles rise, claws unsheathe, but no one attacks. Not yet.

"Is that why you've been avoiding a replacement for the Moon Grove?" Oaknose says, voice unnaturally flat. "So you don't have to be leader beside me? Featherstar, are you afraid that someone might have the audacity and authority to dare question your _flawless_ judgment?"

Icily, Featherstar replies, "I've been less concerned with power and more concerned with protecting the cats who trust me. I suspect you don't have enough of those to understand what that choice is like."

"At least the trust I have is earned rather than given blindly." Oaknose advances a dangerous pace, but before the situation can escalate, Lakewhisker strides between them with his head high.

"Come to a compromise," he murmurs, looking each leader in the eye in turn, though Oaknose gets a longer, more pointed glare born of familiarity. "The Clans need leaders, not squabbling kits. Set a precedent you can be proud of, or let someone else make the choices for you." He lingers as a barrier for a moment more, but when the leaders concede to back away, he removes himself, a lazy purr just barely sneaking out of his throat. Stonetail can't help but echo it; it's the same kind the old tom used to give whenever he tricked Stonetail and Streamheart into behaving during their apprentice days. Lakewhisker hasn't lost his touch in the slightest.

"We can discuss this until after sunhigh," Oaknose grumbles. "Let the sun drop a little before we move at all."

"And we'll discuss it with BreezeClan's warriors," Featherstar adds, craning her neck to nod at Tawnyfeather, who has dutifully shepherded her remaining Clanmates all the way.

But instead of holding a hushed, private council, more and more cats trickle close, packing themselves tightly into the narrow patches of shade until the Clans form a ring with the discussion locked at its center. Oaknose and Featherstar cling to their earlier points, neither one offering the other very much wiggle room in the debate, but Tawnyfeather and Tanglewhisker, as BreezeClan's delegates, are more flexible.

"We need shelter and a place for our medicine cats and leaders to convene with StarClan," Tanglewhisker says, his voice hoarse. He has survived the worst of the old forest's destruction, but his throat was ravaged by the fire and smoke. His voice lacks its old, silky tones, not to mention some of its volume, but he holds enough respect that other cats lean in to listen. "Both are imperative, and neither can be found here, so we clearly can't remain. I hate to risk crossing the meadow, though, when there's no end in sight."

"I've been part of the scouting efforts," Tawnyfeather supplies smoothly. "In teams of two or three, scouts can cover a lot of ground and report back without drawing too much attention. There is a chance that they might encounter a force stronger, but most things can be either dealt with or avoided in a small group."

"And what happens when they do meet up with something three cats alone can't take?" Oaknose asks. "I don't enjoy the thought of my warriors never returning while we waste away waiting for them to come back."

"In that case, you put the needs of the rest of your cats first." Featherstar flicks her tail, scattering dry grass behind her. Her green eyes are narrowed to slits, and she makes no effort to disguise her displeasure with ShadeClan's leader. "If we send scouts, they only have so long to return before the rest of us leave. We can leave signs in case they're late and have to catch up, but that way, we aren't waiting for answers that will never come."

"How do we defend ourselves in the meantime?" Oaknose replies. "Three scouts to each group doesn't leave us many healthy fighters. Too many of us are recovering from one thing or another to scout, let alone defend ourselves."

"So we send only who we need." Again, all eyes and ears swivel expectantly to Tanglewhisker, who shares a subtle nod with Tawnyfeather. "I suggest each Clan send three of their fit cats in a different direction, and these cats have a quarter moon to explore and report back."

"I will be happy to take two other cats across the meadow," Tawnyfeather continues, chin raised. "BreezeClan cats are the best at making the most of poor cover. ShadeClan and WillowClan can fan out in whichever direction they choose."

Murmurs break out among the gathered cats. Lionpaw rises from her seat beside Meadowlight, who looks rounder with every day with the weight of unborn kits. The apprentice hesitates for a fraction of a second, but then she joins Tawnyfeather, declaring herself a scout only just loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm almost old enough to be a warrior," she says, standing tall under Tawnyfeather's startled gaze. Her whiskers quaver. "There's no reason I can't help."

Lionpaw's bravery is a catalyst. As soon as Tawnyfeather welcomes her apprentice onto the journey, Cricketpaw rises from amongst the WillowClan warriors. "Featherstar, send me," she demands. At the same time, the brothers Pikefang and Troutfang also demand to be chosen. Rivershine, though, is loudest of all, drowning out even her younger brothers, and Featherstar relents.

"I will send Rivershine, Pikefang, and Troutfang," she declares. They rush to her and bow their heads in respect, and more quietly, Featherstar adds, "You three are my children. Even if you cannot find anything, come home to me.

"Cricketpaw, your mentor is here, and your training is not yet complete," WillowClan's leader goes on. Cricketpaw, ears folded back with malcontent, nods stiffly and vanishes behind Cloudwing, whose expression is cool and unreadable. There is no surprise in the deputy's expression, nor in anyone else's; ever since Cloudwing abandoned Beetlewhisker in the two-leg camp, per his wishes, Featherstar has been detached from her deputy. Beetlewhisker was her eldest son.

Now, only ShadeClan remains to choose a patrol.

"Did I ever say I agreed to this?" Oaknose barks. But he winces as cats on all sides mutter and scoff at his refusal to cooperate. His nostrils flare with thinly veiled panic, and it appears as if what little favor he still holds is dwindling, even among his own Clanmates. Stonetail can't say she thinks very highly of him at the moment, if she were to tell the truth.

And she thinks even lower of the tabby tom when Clay peels himself from Streamheart's side and says, "I'll go." At first, Oaknose gapes, and then the fury in his eyes slowly makes itself known in the flash of his claws and the rise of his fur. It's no secret he still hates the brothers, that he blames them for all the Clans have lost, and now to have a loner offering to serve his Clan? He probably suspects incompetence at best, and treachery at worst.

Standing back from the proceedings is no longer an option. Stonetail can see in the hard set of Clay's shoulders that he has no interest in finding a way forward, and that he cares not for Oaknose's wrath. As always, he only has one cat on his mind, and she would be lying if she said she didn't feel the same every time Featherstar sent her out scouting. How many times has she almost turned back to the dead forest that was once her home in the vain hope of finding the cats lost to her?

As she steps forward to volunteer, Streamheart is at her side, her spine rigid. They nod to one another, and Stonetail says to Oaknose, "We're going with him."

Oaknose hangs his head. "Then get out of my sight," he spits. "And either find a place for the Clans or don't come back."

Stonetail gets the sinking feeling that he means it.


	4. III - SEARCH

Few cats offer to help the departing scouts with their preparation. Robinfoot, however, is more sympathetic than most. "I'm sorry about Oaknose," he whispers as he prods at Stonetail's shoulder. Before seeing them off, he insisted on making sure her prior injury would not be a hindrance. Now, it seems he approves, because he allows her to stand again and presses his nose to her forehead briefly.

"Don't worry about him," Stonetail reassures the tabby, returning his gesture. Robinfoot's worry will be his undoing, and though she is perhaps still resentful of him for never coming forward when he first suspected danger, she cannot fully pass judgment. He means well, and Oaknose does not. She knows which of the two she prefers, especially since her medicine cat has dipped into his dwindling herb stores to provide her, Clay, and Streamheart with traveling herbs. He gave the herbs to them in secret, and even now, Stonetail finds it hard to rinse the bitter taste from her mouth no matter how many times she swabs it with her tongue. Still, she'll be grateful later, and with a last bob of her head, she leaves Robinfoot standing by himself and joins Streamheart and Clay at the meadow's edge.

With BreezeClan headed straight through the meadow, setting sun at their backs, WillowClan opted to travel deeper into the thin wood, leaving a stretch of short grass between ShadeClan's patrol and another patch of underdeveloped forest. ShadeClan's patrol is the last to leave, with the other two long departed.

"Ready?" Stonetail asks as she pads up. Streamheart nods, and Clay forces a purr.

"Always ready," he says, the light touch in his voice not meeting his eyes. He takes the lead without anyone asking him, and behind him, Stonetail and Streamheart exchange a short glance, brows furrowed. It isn't like Clay to step up so willingly for the good of others, and he's certainly never shown himself to be the confident leader. That has always been more Coal's expertise, albeit in a quiet, cautious way.

No wonder Clay's behavior has changed. It fills a void the exact shape and shade as his brother, though not very well. Sometimes, Clay widens the hole more than he fills it, and Stonetail's gut twists and deflates as she wishes that the hole wasn't there at all.

But they don't talk about Coal now. He's on his own, entirely by choice, and they have other responsibilities that come first, namely three Clans surviving by the skin of their teeth in foreign lands. Even thinking about him is too much sometimes, too distracting.

Not that Clay does much else.

As the sun sets, he marches onward, saying little as he leads Stonetail and Streamheart through the low grass and into the new wood. His endurance stems from some reserve deeper than anything the she-cats have, and though they preserve valiantly, their strength is not endless. By the time the first sliver of moonlight begins to shiver across the ground, Stonetail calls a halt, her limbs heavy. Traveling herbs only do so much.

"Clay, we need to stop," she says. Her throat is dry, even with the cool night air to soothe it. "We've been going all day."

"I need to rest," Streamheart adds. Instead of waiting for Clay's assent, though, she plods to the nearest bush and wriggles beneath it. A puff of dust and a soft thud later, she is lying on her side with her limbs stretched out. One set of white toes peeks out into the moonlight.

Clay scuffs at the ground and opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly seems to think better of it as a yawn interrupts. Tail flagging behind him, he squeezes in beside Streamheart, mumbling an apology as he lies down. Instead of joining them, though, Stonetail finds the next closest bush and lets the chilly air filter through without the hot press of other bodies to interrupt it.

She can't remember the last time she slept alone like this. The nursery was never empty, the apprentices' den was always alive, the warriors' den had no shortage of occupants, and even this trip in search of refuge has left her huddled under ferns and shrubs, tangled up with Clanmates in the stifling greenleaf heat. Here, though, she lies with nothing but emptiness on all sides. It's refreshing, and she breathes easily. Then the first shrieks of hunting bats echo through the air, and the emptiness is just that again.

She looks back at Streamheart and Clay's bush, but one of them snores softly, and the bush is not very large. Even if she tried to join them, there would be no room to do so, and so she resigns herself to a night spent jumping at every faint noise that creeps out of the forest and the skies. Needless to say, when they start out again in the morning, she is the least rested of the three.

In fact, she is the first awake. She rises with dawn, bleary from a poor night's rest and with a growling belly. Thankfully, the smaller creatures in this forest are just returning to their nests with the rising sun, and hunting is not so much grueling work as it is waiting for an unwitting, sleepy mouse to scramble into her claws. She catches two this way, and devours one on the spot. The other, the bigger of the two, swings from her jaws by the tail as she returns to find Clay and Streamheart still curled up beneath the bush.

Waking them feels traitorous. They seem so at peace. Still, Stonetail drops the mouse in front of their noses and gives them both a solid nudge. Soon enough, they've polished it off, though they do offer Stonetail some before picking the bones clean. She declines it, claiming her mouse was enough. It wasn't really, though, and as they leave in search of water before the day's trek, her stomach grumbles.

Finding water takes an alarmingly long time. The morning dew dries in a flash under the hot sun, and the shallow channels they slink through are dry, with no indication of which way they once ran, which way their source might be. Turning back to known water sources isn't an option, though, so they plod onward in thick silence.

Even the birds are hiding as they walk. The heat is unbearable, and Stonetail pities Streamheart especially. Her long, thick fur is a blessing in the depths of leafbare, but now, she must be boiling under her pelt. As such, when they finally find a creek with more than a puddle of water in it, Streamheart splashes in up to her chin, purring.

"I needed this," she mumbles before guzzling mouthfuls of the clear water. Clay and Stonetail remain on the bank to get their drink, but there's no denying that the cold stream feels delightful, and eventually, they give in to the temptation to splash their paws in the current.

"Should we follow it?" Clay asks, swatting at the measly silhouette of a fish no longer than his claw. It swims away unharmed. "That way we can stay close to water and find our way back. It's a trick Coal and I used to use."

Stonetail can hear the tabby's throat tighten, and she runs her tail sympathetically over his back. It's a smart idea, though, and she gives it her full support. Together, the three make a pact not to venture far from the banks when hunting, and if they reach a branch in the creek, Streamheart suggests that they take pebbles from the bed and create small, obvious piles to guide them.

"If it branches a lot, we can't remember it all. We're safer making signs, and marking the area as an extra precaution." She climbs onto the bank and shakes out her pelt, spraying Stonetail and Clay both. They recoil, but the cool water is refreshing once the shock of being splashed goes away.

"We just have to make sure we turn back on the third day," Stonetail says, flicking water off her ears. "That gives us four days to make sure we're back on time. I don't want to try following the Clans's signs because we were late."

This agreed on, they finally resume heading downstream. Sunhigh is almost upon them, and even though being near to the stream helps stave off the heat somewhat, it's not a true shield. Panting, the three cats edge closer and closer to the water until they're wading in it, and even that's not enough.

Stonetail thinks the expedition couldn't have been arranged at a worse time. If the Clans had sent them out in a rainstorm, that would be preferable to baking in her coat. The water would be chilly and constant, and if it got to be too much, hiding in thick undergrowth would be more than acceptable. Then again, she dreads to think of lightning forking through the sky, blinding white. She's had her fill of violent storms like that, and if she never hears thunder again, it still might be too soon.

Caught up in the memory of the ShadeClan pines burning, Stonetail doesn't pay attention to where she's going and stumbles over a dip in the creekbed. She plunges into the cold water, and when she bursts up, spluttering, she wonders for a second what Streamheart is doing so far ahead. But Streamheart is at her side, not downstream, making sure she hasn't twisted a paw, and Stonetail blames the vision on the water splashing through the air from her fall, not to mention the horrible heat.

"I'm fine," she promises, shaking free of the silver tabby's concerned inspection. "Lost my footing is all." Twirling her paw, she finds that it hurts, but not in such a way she thinks it's sprained. She simply slipped, and it will stop hurting soon.

Did she hit her head, too, though? For a moment, she looks into the copse ahead, and it seems as if the copse looks back with a pair of bright golden eyes tucked into the shadows. Then the sensation is gone, replaced by travel fatigue once more.

Maybe one day, there will be an end to the wandering. Or maybe not. But looking at Streamheart trudging through the water, feeling her own sluggish limbs, she gets the sense that either the wandering ends somewhere or they do. Except Clay, perhaps; he's the best equipped to survive as little more than a nomad. But he's spent all his life a wanderer. It would hardly be fair for him to die that way.

Still, Stonetail can't get the thought out of her head that this journey might be the end of things. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the hope of finding a new home slips away with every step they take, and suddenly their quest seems all the harder.

Still, she plows on.


	5. INTERLUDE I

At sunhigh, it is time to rest. The shadows are not long enough to hide in, and the heat is oppressive at best. Still, resting is almost impossible. Somewhere out there is a cat that must be found, and with every lengthy break spent panting in the scant shade, that cat drifts farther away.

But there is a scent now, stronger than ever before. It smells like charred pines with a hint of murky, humid air, the kind that arrives just before thunder fills the sky and lightning ravages the earth. It is overwhelmingly familiar, but more importantly, it will be the means to an end. Reaching the end of this scent trail means coming all the closer to fulfilling a goal so old that it's almost too hard to say where it began.

Almost.

The origins are murky, but the cruel notes are there as sharp as ever. So is the betrayal and the frustration and most of all, the bitter certainty that a dire mistake was made. And so the goal is to correct this mistake, to put an end to its ugliest consequences before there can be any more.

Reflecting on this as the sun begins to fall again, the grey shadow slides out of its hiding place in a rocky crevice that mars the side of a low cliff. Perhaps it was once a den for something hungry and huge, but now it is merely an interim between loss and achievement.

The shadow revels in the fading heat. Soon the moon will rise, and all manner of birds and bats will fill the night. Nothing else will move, and the shadow can cover ground lost during the waking hours. Sometimes, though, nights are not nearly enough to put any measurable dent in the distance left, and the shadow blames this on the long ages resting in running water, letting the current wash away grime from the places that still ache to reach, letting it soothe the still-stinging wounds that hinder every movement. Those hours cannot be made up.

An owl flutters out from a nearby tree, well ahead of its evening schedule. With a low hoot, it wings away, totally silent otherwise. Its prey will fail to hear it coming until it is far too late.

The shadow purrs in satisfaction. It aspires to be quite like the owl.


	6. IV - RAPIDS

Much to their frustration, the trio finds nowhere suitable to sustain three Clans before the sun sets and the air cools. They take shelter in a small thicket on the opposite bank of the stream, this time all curled together in a pile. Once, Stonetail might have complained about Clay's tail in her face and Streamheart's paw pressing against her thigh, but the company is more than welcome after spending last night jumping at every little noise of the forest. She sleeps much more soundly this time, dreaming of a lush glade of pines teeming with prey and cut by a sparkling stream. The glade is more tranquil than anything she's ever known, and when Streamheart's shifting wakes her, Stonetail is momentarily disoriented to find herself lying in the grass rather than strolling through the soft ground cover of pine needles.

With a yawn, she extracts herself from the tangle of limbs and stretches into the sun. Behind her, Streamheart says, "Good morning."

"Didn't know you were up." Stonetail twists to give her hind legs a thorough washing. Flecks of mud from traipsing through the stream have dried there, and only now are they coming loose.

"You woke me." Streamheart rolls Clay off her side and falls into the same pattern of lick, rinse, repeat. She was more thorough than Stonetail last night, though, and fewer flakes of mud drift from her coat as she works.

In companionable silence, they groom one another while Clay gets his bearings, entirely oblivious to the mud on his own paws. The day is probably going to be as hot as the one before, but somehow, no one has the will to get started while the air is still dry and free of sticky heat. Against their better judgment, they wait until the sun is fully over the horizon to start alongside the stream once more.

Stonetail is grateful that they discussed what to do if the stream branches, too, because not long after they finally begin, the current races down two separate paths. "Well, which should we take?" Streamheart asks, dipping her muzzle into the water for a drink. "I like the right branch. There's more cover. See those trees way over there?"

True to the tabby's word, there is a cluster of trees in the distance, and though it's impossible to be certain from here, it looks like the edge of a proper forest. Stonetail likes the looks of the birds soaring in and out of the area, and there's bound to be water close by as long as the creek doesn't end abruptly or loop back on itself. For a moment, she dares to hope that they've found a place that just might be home. "It doesn't look too bad," she says, aware that even saying the words will make it all the harder if there's nothing of note down that path.

But then Clay yelps and takes off down the opposite branch, his tail flying out behind him like a banner. Stunned, Streamheart and Stonetail watch him go for a heartbeat, then race after him. "Clay! What's the matter?" the silver warrior cries, but Clay thunders onward without heed for anything but the path ahead.

Under normal circumstances, Clay would not be so hard to catch. He's a cat built for strength, not speed. However, Stonetail and Streamheart are worn from traveling, whereas the brown tabby is somehow in his element now more than ever. It isn't until they crest a small hill that they fall into stride beside Clay, whose chest heaves with every bound. When he realizes they've caught up with him, he skids to a halt.

His eyes are wild, and he stammers, "I thought I smelled… It was…" But he has to catch his breath, finally coming to terms with just how winded he is from his unexpected sprint. It takes what feels like an eternity to coax any answers from him, and it isn't until he drops into the grass, panting, that he forms a complete sentence.

"I thought I smelled Coal's scent," he admits, refusing to make eye contact. "It wasn't, though. I already lost it…"

Stonetail winces, and even though she knows better, she parts her jaws and drinks in the humid air. It smells of greenleaf, of clear skies ready to turn dark at a moment's notice, of water rushing into stagnant pools. None of it is familiar.

And then it is. She almost chokes on the scent as it wreathes around her lungs; it's so soft, spread so thin. A hint of smoke lies beneath it, touched honey-sweet against all odds. It shouldn't smell nice. It shouldn't smell safe.

She takes off.

Flying downstream, the world feels like it's tilted on its edge, throwing her headlong into the unknown. Streamheart and Clay call out behind her before following in her footsteps. Stonetail's fervor is infectious, lighting up their travel with a heady fire. They run nearly as fast as the current, hurtling over dips and rises in the earth. Within minutes, Stonetail can feel her shoulder burning; it has had time to heal, but time to be re-injured as well, something she has not been particularly cautious about. Pain lances through with every step, carving its mark into her bones, but she pushes ahead, eyes up all the way. The horizon glitters and shimmers, revealing itself to be a lake as they draw closer, and the oppressive heat refuses to let up, sinking through their pelts. Eventually, they must slow, and they come to a halt some fox-lengths from the sandy lake shore.

"You smell him, too," Clay pants.

"I do," Stonetail confesses. "I do." She scents the air again, searching for the same traces of lingering smoke that led her downhill in the first place. It is fainter than ever before, and when a sly breeze whistles through, it is gone on the wind, never there in the first place, carried there from a distance. A sideways glance at Clay proves that he has noticed the same thing; his shoulders droop and his eyes lose the brief light they'd just held. His brother continues to haunt them, a faint phantom in their lives.

Rallying after their sprint takes all the effort they have, and still, they only walk a few more paces before Streamheart digs her paws in. "We need to regroup," she says, taking a seat. "We can't go chasing ghos–any scent we find. We're running out of time to find something and turn back, and there was that forest at the branch."

Stonetail can read between the lines. The forest isn't a guaranteed haven for the Clans, but it is far more reliable than hurtling after wisps on the wind. Her gut twists, and she remembers the time when she was the voice of reason, when it was usually Streamheart flying into trouble at every turn. It feels like she's losing her grip, her place. Without her familiar role to fill, she cannot be certain of who she must become. Too much is changing, too much, too fast.

But the Clans. She shakes her head to clear it, pulling her goals back into focus again. The Clans must come first, before all else. It's the heart of the warrior code, the basic structure of her life, no matter how dearly she wants to abandon it now and again. You could, pesters the little voice in the back of her mind. You could leave it behind for this. The thought refuses to leave, taking steady root the more she tries to fight it. A couple moons ago, she would have had the sense to brush it away, but after everything that has happened, it is a thought with strength, a thought with power, especially over her wavering will, a thought she will never shake away if she turns her back now.

"Let's go around the lake," she says. A glance at the far shore suggests the outlines of more trees, hazy as the sun gleams on the water. There are Two-legs in the distance, too, but they're far enough around the lake that they're nothing to fear. "If there's nothing there, then we turn back."

"The lake will take all day," Streamheart argues. "We need to turn around by tomorrow morning if we want to reach the Clans before they move again. There won't be time to check that forest if we stay here. Besides, aren't the Two-legs over there a problem?"

Stonetail opens her mouth to protest, but instead, Clay cuts her off. He used to look soft, rounded by rest and happiness, but the climbing sun throws hard shadows across his face. He looks sharp, even gaunt, and his voice matches all too well. "Then you go look at the rest of the stream, and we'll search the lake. If we rush and you take your time, we'll probably meet up again. We'll cover more ground."

Streamheart flinches, curling her tail tight over her paws, and Stonetail mirrors the movement. Clay throwing himself into the role of the strategist goes against everything they've learned about him. Narrow-focused directives suit Coal much better, and it's as if he looms over Clay's back, seeping into his heart and twisting it away from his benevolent nature. Every passing day makes it clearer that only Coal's vigilance allowed Clay to become kind, and Coal's shade is a relentless motivator in his absence.

His shade is also standing in the shallows farther along the shore, chasing sunbeams and shadows in the water until a fish leaps up.

With her heart in her throat, Stonetail swats at Clay and Streamheart until they turn to see the figure in the lake. None of them speak; the illusion might shatter if they do. And yet this is no illusion. There is flesh and blood in the distance, cloaked in dark fur, and they all know what they are seeing. Who they are seeing.

This time, Stonetail is the first to her feet, sprinting across the shore. She kicks up pebbles with every step, shoulder positively howling for her to stop, but her momentum builds the closer she gets, boiling up to the point where she almost fears she will not be able to stop at all. Even the gritty sand between her toes and the scent of algae baking in the greenleaf sun cannot deter her, and she flies around one of the gnarled shrubs exploding all along the lakeshore, barely giving it a wide enough berth to keep its branches free of her fur.

And then she stops. She skids to a halt, sand spraying everywhere, and Clay narrowly avoids her as he does the same. This scene is all too familiar, down to the sickening twist in her gut that comes with the realization that she is wrong, so very wrong. Just as Skipper was not Tawnyfeather, the cat frozen before her, fish flopping at his paws, is not Coal.  
He is similarly skinny, with an anxious curve to his spine that speaks to a life of expecting danger at any moment, and his wide amber eyes gleam with barely tamped fear. With his tail kinked over his back and a nervous flash of his fangs, he looks almost as he should. But his ears are a hair too round, his fur a touch too long, and that's nothing compared to the white splash on his chest and belly.

This is not Coal.

He picks up his catch and flees, hardly sparing them a second glance. Stonetail finds herself chasing after him, too, even though his fear-scent is positively rank. "Wait," she calls after him. "We want to talk!"

Like any reasonable cat confronted by strangers, he doesn't look back. Instead, he sprints along the shoreline with his fresh catch dangling from his jaws. The nearby Two-legs startle at the sight, pointing and shouting as the black cat races past them close enough to touch, but he ignores them.

Stonetail ignores the Two-legs as well. Every ounce of her blood burns with the effort of keeping up with the black tom, and her shoulder threatens to tear away from her body any minute. The scar tissue is tearing with the effort, the burns beneath her slowly growing fur stinging as she runs.

But there is a cat here, healthy enough to outpace her, and lucky enough to catch a fish that barely fits in his jaws. Two-legs aside, this is a place that sustains life. There's little time to scout properly before the Clans set off again, so Stonetail can't be certain, but the lake could be the answer the Clans seek. She just has to find out if the tom is alone.

If there are other cats living here, the Clans won't stand a chance. They've been traveling too long, and there aren't enough warriors fit for combat, especially if it comes to a fight that isn't a promised victory.

By the time Stonetail dodges the Two-legs, the black tom is nearly to the river, a whole tree-length ahead and gaining. He spares her a single panicked glance at the water's edge, all his muscles poised as if to leap even as their eyes lock. Then, just as Stonetail finds herself within shouting distance again, he springs into the rushing waters.

The foam swallows him whole. When Stonetail reaches the river, there is nothing but rapids as far downstream as the eye can see. The water churns and froths, spitting over sharp rocks that jut out from the roiling surface, and it is impossible to see the bottom. It may be shallow and quick, or far deeper and far more dangerous.

Streamheart and Clay soon arrive, coming to a halt at Stonetail's side. "He got away?" Streamheart asks.

"Jumped."

Streamheart looks skeptical, the same way Stonetail feels. Not even a WillowClan cat can safely navigate such a vicious current. They are more likely to break against the rocks, to have their body left in some other lake at the river's end, than to escape the river alive.

Clay, though, stares downstream with his brow furrowed. "He did jump," he breathes, the barest note of wonder in his voice.

"You don't believe me?" It's not the fact that the tom jumped that's surprised Clay, though. Stonetail follows his gaze down the rapids, and clinging to the rocks before the first drop in the river is a black cat, fur plastered down by water, fat fish long gone. He strains toward the bank, and reaching for him is a ginger-and-white tabby. She leans so far over the water that it seems as if she'll take the plunge as well, but then she has the tom's scruff in her jaws, and with her feet firmly planted on the bank, she drags him to safety at last.

It's a small comfort to see the tom alive despite the odds. Once he catches his breath, it's too late for Stonetail to duck. He spots her and even from a distance, she can see his hackles rising. She can also see the she-cat clearly, and her heart sinks.

"We have to go," she says, but it's too late. The spark of recognition is clear even from this distance. Skipper has seen her clear as day, and she places herself between Stonetail and the black tom. Then her eyes widen, and she shouts something lost to the roar of the river.

As Stonetail turns to ask Streamheart and Clay if they heard what Skipper said, the bolt of tortoiseshell fur comes out of nowhere, slamming into her side. Together, Stonetail and the tortoiseshell tumble into the raging waters, and the current swallows them whole.


End file.
